


on memory, and the occasional lack of it

by petalprose



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Don't copy to another site, Gen, generally just the author projecting onto aziraphale, memory problems
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-04 03:16:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20464130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petalprose/pseuds/petalprose
Summary: Flaws are not a hallmark of Principalities. Flaws are not hallmarks of angels in general. Is it the humanity getting to him, he wonders, or is it just something he's brought upon himself? The problem is that he can't pinpoint the exact thing which would warrant a punishment such as this.What use is an angel with faulty memory?





	on memory, and the occasional lack of it

There are many things that could qualify Aziraphale for the unfortunate oxymoron of 'bad angel'.

His love and indulgence for food and drink being one thing, his longstanding companionship with a demon another; one could argue that barring would-be patrons of his bookshop from entry is distinctly unangelic behaviour, and one could argue that perhaps performing temptations is rather undeniable proof of him being not all that great at this whole angel of the lord business.

Aziraphale is of the argument that he's just adapted to being stationed on Earth. An angel, wherever they are on the incomprehensible scale of good to bad, is bound to get awfully used to routine and sentiment when stationed on the same planet for the better part of six millennia. Is bound to find wonder in themself at the wonders humanity can concoct. Is bound to be bound to the concept of simply living. As for his consorting with the enemy—well, six thousand years on a small planet, the only one of your kind, can become rather... Dull, after a time. Companionship, Aziraphale has found, was worth more than he could think to offer, in the face of a fate so lonely.

(He’d had to offer holy water, once.)

Thus, Aziraphale does not think of these things that mark him as maybe-not-quite-all-that-great as an angel. He gets good at this, as one is wont to do. A handful of hundred years after he sets his mind to it, a Mr. Malcolm Gladwell states that it takes someone about ten-thousand hours to master a skill. Aziraphale has had millennia to master careful forgetfulness. He’s gotten light on his feet, what with how much he tiptoes around it, what with how silent Heaven is becoming.

He hadn’t thought there might be other things of importance he’d forget.

Flaws are not a hallmark of Principalities. Flaws are not hallmarks of angels in general. Is it the humanity getting to him, he wonders, or is it just something he's brought upon himself?

The problem is that he can't pinpoint the exact thing which would warrant a punishment such as this. What use is an angel with faulty memory? What use is he with faulty memory? He is the only angel stationed on earth. What is he to do if he can't remember the precursor to the event he is overseeing? What is he to do if he is commended for something he can't remember his role in?

What had done it, giving away the sword, lying to God, shielding then-Crawley from the rain; what had he done? Why his memory?

None of these questions he voices out loud. All those who fell were the ones that had questioned Her. Or perhaps he’s misremembering. Wouldn’t be too surprising.

Aziraphale first realizes that he hasn't got a long memory when it’s three hundred years after the great flood and he can't remember Noah's face. He is called to Heaven for a briefing, although it becomes more or less a reminiscing session.

Gabriel had only given Noah a passing glance, but describes his face in excruciating detail— and Aziraphale, with mounting distress, found that he couldn't recall his own memory of Noah's face to cross-reference. Not that he doubts Gabriel’s description, of course.

(Aziraphale had been there. He’d watched the man build the boat, he’d felt the first drops of rain, he’d kept his feet still when animals ran away from the ark, but he can’t remember Noah’s face. He doesn’t doubt Gabriel, but he _can’t remember Noah’s face_.)

Aziraphale takes to reading historic accounts. He scours every line, every turn of phrase, for a spark of familiarity. This is where his interest in keeping humanity’s records starts: an angel desperately looking for traces of his divinity spread throughout the ages.

Sometimes he's successful. Take Rome, for instance. Mention of Caligula comes with memories of Petronius, oysters, a demon, a slip of the tongue. Ah, and Aziraphale can remember the state of the famed Library of Alexandria over the years-- neglected until the rumour of fire overtook the truth of its undoing. He had tried, actually, to mitigate its slow decay, but upper management took suspicion with his actions, conspicuous as they were, and between one miracle and another, his hands had gotten tied.

"Aziraphale," Michael had said, "we understand why you are doing this. But it is just one library. The humans will create more, and fill them with more knowledge."

"Resilient, they are," added Uriel, going for a reassuring tone, standing behind Michael with their hands clasped. “They’ve been keeping this one’s head above water for the past century or two, haven’t they? Just goes to show.”

Aziraphale did not bite his tongue on a protest. He’d smiled, said, "Oh, they truly are, aren't they?" and he’d nodded to them both, continued, "Thank you for reaching out to me, Archangel Michael, Archangel Uriel," and when he's back on earth the Library has disappeared for the last time.

Blame doesn't rest on anyone's shoulders. Aziraphale swallowed it down from where it threatened to claw out of his throat.

But Michael and Uriel were right, and there are other libraries. Aziraphale helps to fill some of them with his own writing. He collects books. He opens a bookshop. A reasonable progression of events.

He gets quite the irrational scare when he was told he’d been promoted, right during the grand opening. He gets quite the irrational flood of relief when he gets to stay on Earth instead.

Some years later (he can’t remember when and isn’t that becoming a trend) he reads that keeping a journal or a diary can help with one’s memory, and he thinks back to the bookshelf he’s got dedicated to journals and diaries of his own filled with everything he’d experienced that he’d thought was important, and everything he’d seen humanity come up with and gone through regardless of importance, and the utterly frivolous miracles he’s done in order to keep them safe over the years, and.

And he’s still got frustrating gaps in his memory. He doesn’t understand it, not at all, not in the slightest, but he makes do as best he can.

Reporting to Heaven, Aziraphale can get by, if at least by the skin of his teeth. His superiors don’t tend to ask him about his day, much less his century.

It becomes most apparent when he’s with Crowley—the long stretches of time between their meetings, especially earlier on, hadn’t helped Aziraphale much. Aziraphale’s thought up multiple different ways to deflect or respond when Crowley brings up something he can’t remember. They vary wildly when it comes to effectiveness, but Crowley seems to fall for them regardless.

“That’s a long sip of wine you’re taking,” Crowley would say, a brow raised over his glasses, and once Aziraphale’s finished with his long sip of wine Crowley’s moved on to talk about the next inane topic.

Aziraphale is helped by the fact that Crowley has been one of the major constants in his life on Earth; he’s found it’s easier to remember events when Crowley was involved or with him in some way. A familiar face could mean a world of difference.

Of course, sometimes Aziraphale just wants to say it outright—_no, Crowley, I don’t remember it. I don’t remember much of anything from that year, in fact. _But something makes him hold his tongue each time; _he’s still chewing the crepes, he can’t interrupt Crowley while he’s speaking, oh this anecdote sounds particularly important it would be embarrassing if I told him I’d forgotten, I can’t believe I’ve forgotten about that_, and he inevitably forgets about it.

Crowley probably knows. Or has his suspicions. Aziraphale isn’t so confident as to believe that he’s fooled his adversary for the six millennia they’ve known each other.

So, barring his interactions with Crowley and reports to Heaven, Aziraphale’s short memory doesn’t come up.

His life goes on regardless of which memories he can keep. Aziraphale writes and reads and deflects, and hopes that maybe one day he can read through his journals and recall the days with perfect clarity.

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to projection city


End file.
